


In The Air Tonight

by insominia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Murder Husbands, Psychopaths In Love, Serial Killer Castiel (Supernatural), Serial Killer Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 10:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20152027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insominia/pseuds/insominia
Summary: It had been sixteen days since Dean Winchester had last made headlines. Not that Castiel was counting. Not that he had given it any thought at all.





	In The Air Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jailhouse Rock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420744) by [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses), [Nera_Solani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nera_Solani/pseuds/Nera_Solani). 

> So this is a prequel thing that came to me, for Nera_Solani's 'Destiel Serial Killer Husbands' series, which you must read. Seriously. Go forth people and live your twisted yet incredibly fluffy dreams! They said they wouldn't mind if I went ahead and wrote this prequel, hopefully I have done it justice! 
> 
> ~ i

It had not been Castiel’s intention to stop. Not here, anyway. Not for another hour or so, at least. Yet, as he pulled the nondescript, white sedan into the motel parking lot, he could not help but feel a little smug that he had planned well enough to allow for the unexpected. He killed the engine and took a moment, listening to the storm raging just the other side of the car. He glanced over the wheel, to the hood, but with the wipers stilled, already he could see nothing beyond spray and the heavy splash of water landing with such force it seemed to bounce off the windscreen. The only thing to be made out was the luminescent blue glow of the hotel's sign and even though Castiel knew he was in no real danger, he checked his phone just to make sure.

He’d been driving for just over eight hours spread across three different cars, more than he would usually have gone through but the Toyota’s seat had been broken and no matter how hard he’d tried, he just couldn’t get comfortable. The white sedan had come from the back of a second-hand dealership, closed for the night and if the storm held out, probably the rest of the weekend. Even if the owner had inexplicably returned for the evening, it was doubtful they’d notice the car stolen until the weather cleared. The chance of the authorities looking for this particular car was slim at best. The chance of them coming across it, complete with switched plates, parked in a dark corner of an out-of-the-way motel lot in this rain? Non-existent.

Illuminated only by the distant, artificial glow of a street light, Castiel smirked without meaning to. He wasn’t one to pat himself on the back but even by his exacting standards, tonight had been exceptional. He wondered if Dean Winchester would appreciate it, before he forced his attention back to the matter at hand, berating himself for allowing his mind to wander in the first place. Another glance at the phone screen told him that even if the police had been at their most efficient, he had a good hour or so before they inevitably released the story of the latest murder to the press and his face was once again splashed over the media across the state. States _plural_ even, given how he looked to be making the FBI’s Most Wanted List. That would be interesting. He idly wondered if he’d have to adjust his tactics. In a way he was looking forward to having the feds on his tail, maybe they would prove a challenge. Even now, despite the stillness of the car and the satisfaction of another kill, he could feel _it_ thrumming beneath his skin, as persistent as his pulse. The itch he could never scratch. He thought it might have been the weather, the humid build-up that had seen people begging for it to break, but here was the storm with lightning scorching the sky and still it hummed in his blood, seemingly unaffected by the break in the weather or the man Castiel had left bleeding to death in a warehouse.

It had been nine days since he’d last been on the news, but even so, Castiel didn’t hide his face. Paradoxically, he had found that trying to obscure himself often drew more attention than if he just acted normal. Normal by _their_ standards at least. Never his own. Nevertheless, he popped the collar of his trench coat in a futile attempt to stave off the storm. He’d noticed a discarded baseball cap, forgotten in the glove compartment, but decided not to bother with it. In this weather, it would likely blow away regardless, and it would do little to shield him from the rain.

It took Castiel all of thirty seconds to hurry across the lot into the hotel’s lobby, yet by the time he stepped into the shelter, his hair was already slicked to his face, trailing rivulets across his skin as though he had stepped out of a swimming pool, fully clothed. The harsh wind had buffeted him mercilessly and he was surprised to find himself out of breath despite a lack of exertion. Glancing around the small crowd of people that seemed to be gathered around the front desk, he found he was not the only one. He waited, patiently, a sight more patiently than some of the other guests who were irate at even the slightest delay, given that they appeared to be dripping onto the carpet.

"Who d'you have to kill to get some service around here?" a man snarled and Castiel chuckled before he could stop himself.

A dark-haired man in an extremely smart burgundy tuxedo complete with black bow tie gestured Castiel towards the front desk, sliding a registration card towards him before he had stopped moving. Taking the pen offered to him, Castiel gestured to the lobby, “busy night,” he noted. Small talk. Not too involved but not too quiet. Forgettable.

“Any port in a storm I guess,” the man shrugged and Castiel turned his attention to the card, filling his name in as ‘Steve Milton’. It was a new alias, one he hadn’t used before, like the credit card it matched in his pocket. But the clerk didn’t bat an eyelid at being presented an unused card, taking his details and handing him a key attached to a shining, golden fob before pointing out the buffet, including pie that was apparently the best in the tri-state area. Castiel followed the gesture to a busy dining room and found himself wondering if Dean Winchester liked pie._ Irrelevant_. Irrelevant and absurd. He turned his attention sharply to the key and decided there and then he would not partake in the buffet.

“Would you like help with your-” the clerk started but broke off when he realised that Castiel had nothing with him that would require assistance. Normally a lack of baggage might have been questioned, but there were several others in the same position. It had not been intentional on Castiel’s part but it certainly lent legitimacy to the man who had checked in with nothing more than the clothes on his back. They had been stolen from a laundrette he’d passed. His own clothes he’d left burning some hundred miles away so there wouldn’t be anything to link him to the man whose blood he’d ended up drenched in. With a friendly smile, not too friendly, not too inviting, Castiel thanked the clerk and headed for his room. Navigating the bodies in the lobby was easy, don’t make eye contact but don’t avoid it. They need to like you and forget about you the minute they’re not looking. Don’t make an impression. By the time he reached the elevator, Castiel doubted any one of the crowd would remember him, even if presented with his picture, which they inevitably would be, probably in a day or so.

The room was spacious and clean. He could have done a lot worse given that this had been a spur of the moment decision. But there were chocolates on the pillow and a folded advert next to the television showed that the porn here was of a higher quality than most hotels, if Castiel was interested in such a thing. Decidedly, he was not.

Before he allowed himself to relax, however, there were a few things he needed to deal with. The door, he bolted and chained, nobody would be able to get in without giving him notice first. There was no window in the bathroom, yet there was something of a balcony beside the bed. Not large enough for him to stand on, more a glorified railing that was no doubt required by health and safety to accompany the floor-length windows. But if needed, he could slip out of the window, vault the railing and if he was careful he could catch himself on the next floor on the way down. From there it was only a short drop to the ground and he mentally calculated the distance he would potentially have to run to get to the car, even as the rain lashed against him. Satisfied, he closed the window and finally slipped off the trench coat he’d acquired. He wouldn’t need it again tonight. This was not the night he would be caught. He managed to catch the sneeze before it escaped him obnoxiously and he realised that as efficient as he’d been in securing his escape route, he was still in wet clothes that clung to him, his hair already damp from the rain now dripped anew after its brush with the open window.

Thankfully, the shower was gloriously warm and there were enough towels available that he would not need to don his clothes again until they dried, assuming he didn’t mind sleeping in the nude. Which he didn’t.

Normally, a shower was a perfunctory thing for Castiel. Simply a requirement of living; to be clean or to remove any forensic evidence that might link him to his victims. It was not something he took particular pleasure in. However, in keeping with the rest of the hotel, they had seemed to have installed something a little more luxurious than the average showerhead and he was treated to a cascade of warm water resembling a waterfall that was so at odds with the shower he’d received outside that Castiel couldn’t help but revel in it. He’d already given himself a thorough and necessary scrub before he’d switched cars for the first time, but this was positively heavenly by comparison. He even indulged in the complimentary shower gels and assorted scents that came in _actual_ bottles, not a dispenser attached to the wall.

In the pleasant warmth of the shower, without anything to concern himself with for the moment, Castiel did _not_ think about Dean Winchester. Not for a second. Nor did he think about Dean Winchester as he wrapped himself in several layers of towels, almost amused at how cosy he had made himself. He did not think about Dean Winchester as he charged Steve Milton’s card with room service. It was definitely _not_ because he was thinking of Dean Winchester that he made his first and only slip up of the last forty-eight hours when he opened the door to the cheerful woman bringing his dinner. She rolled past him, unfazed by the towels instead of clothes. She took a signature and it was only after she had left that he realised he’d gotten too comfortable and she could have been a front for a police assault. Instinctively, he checked the time again and forced himself to breathe deeply. He was fine, everything was fine. Even if the local authorities managed to do what others had not and identify what they were dealing with immediately, they’d still be hard pushed to catch up with him until morning. Assuming they were able to follow his trail and they’d never come close before. Still, he double-checked that the door was secure before he returned to his meal.

When he turned the television on, putting the twenty-four-hour news coverage on low, he told himself it was to drown out the vague rumble of a conversation he could hear from the next room. His skin itched and he forced himself to focus on the food and an immaterial story about a young girl’s unlikely friendship with an otter. It had been sixteen days since Dean Winchester had last made headlines. Not that Castiel was counting. Not that he had given it any thought at all.

The news was still on, long after Castiel had finished his dinner and tidied it away to make the cleaner’s job easier. He could still hear obscured voices through the wall and felt a wave of irritation simmering in his blood. He could always kill them. But then, he’d done enough for one day. And did he really want to go back out and drive in this weather to make his second escape?

The lights were on low and Castiel had discarded the towels in favour of slipping beneath surprisingly soft covers, a breath away from turning everything off completely and surrendering to the sleep that had been threatening him for some time when a special report flashed across the screen, catching both his breath and his attention.

Dean Winchester had killed again.

The tiredness left him instantly and he shifted against the pillows so he could see the screen better. The reporter was saying something, words probably, they washed over Castiel as the irrelevant nothings that they were. His entire focus had honed onto the image that now covered the top right of the screen, a particularly high definition capture from CCTV footage. It was not recent, he recognised it as an older image. Last September's. One the authorities had begun circulating when they had linked four separate killings to Dean Winchester. Not that he had made it hard for them, not with his tendency to flaunt himself on CCTV. Not that Castiel could complain much about that given that he...reciprocated.

_Well_. Reciprocated was too strong a term, given that it was highly likely Castiel was reading far too much into the man’s patterns. Surely, only a crazy person would look at a serial killer’s workings and think it was an attempt to get their attention. But then, Castiel had killed a man in the last twenty-four hours, so maybe he was not best placed to judge what a crazy person would or would not do. He could not have pinpointed when he realised that a fellow serial killer known to him only through vague news reports and police posters reached out to him through his victims. Nor could he have said for sure when he responded in kind, he just knew that somehow he and Winchester were communicating. He stared, transfixed at the still image of the man’s face and it occurred to him that _how_ he knew this was irrelevant. It was enough he did know. After all, Dean Winchester was a kindred spirit. A familiar, warm fluttering pooled in his gut and subconsciously he licked his dry lips, his gaze trained on Dean’s exaggerated pout.

The news anchor was babbling about how horrific the latest crime was and Castiel paid just enough attention to hear the words, “the following footage might be disturbing for some viewers.” He was on his knees now, the remote in his hands so he could turn the volume up, even though the footage was silent. The low thrum in his blood had become a roar, sparked into life by green eyes and freckled skin.

Regrettably, the footage shown was monochrome but the man was still beautiful as he gathered a small crowd into what looked like...a vault? Yes, a vault. Was he robbing a bank? Castiel frowned, that was hardly Winchester’s style. The man glimpsed the camera, but it was not a look of surprise that he’d been caught. This was measured, deliberate. Castiel’s breath caught somewhere in his throat. Then, with no hesitation, in a single graceful movement, Dean Winchester raised his firearm and discharged it into the vault, the angle of the camera sparing the casual viewer from the violence of the scene. Castiel positively growled in frustration, his thumb finding the volume button as though that could help somehow. As though he might hear the screams. Winchester fired until the gun was empty and then, with infinite slowness, he lowered his weapon, looked back up at the camera, smiled and winked. Then he simply walked away. He hadn’t even touched the money.

The anchor was back, talking about how horrific it had all been, advising viewers in the area to remain calm but vigilant, Castiel wasn’t listening. He grabbed the remote and thank God the hotel had splashed out on small comforts, he could rewind live television and rolled the screen back to the first glimpse of Winchester rounding up his victims. Castiel watched it again from start to finish, somehow knowing what was coming did nothing to lessen the impact when the gun was discharged once more. But then there was that smile. _Oh, that smile_.

The thundering in Castiel’s ears stopped abruptly, the persistent prickle beneath his skin stilled as he rewound and watched again for the smile. As Winchester winked and turned away, Castiel finally allowed himself to breathe again. The rush of air leaving him dizzy in its wake, or perhaps that was simply Dean. He was almost surprised to find he had dropped the remote and was instead palming himself lightly through the bedsheets. He picked it up with the other hand and rewound it all, this time pausing for the smile.

_God_, but Dean Winchester was breathtaking. And that smile, that wink, they were meant for Castiel and he knew it. He canted his hips forward against his palm seeking more friction, his head tipping back as his eyes closed, visions of the graceful way in which Dean had drawn his gun repeating behind them.

He let the sheet pool at his knees and took himself in hand, almost harshly. Dean would be harsh. He would know Castiel could handle it. He would take him to the very edge of his endurance. There was nothing leisurely about it now, Castiel planted his knees further apart so he could brazenly stroke himself to the still image of Dean Winchester, who smiled up at him, a secret smile that was meant to draw out this very reaction. If they ever met Castiel would have to punish him. If they ever met, there would be blood.

A breathy groan escaped him as he imagined Dean’s hands on him. Dean’s hand jacking him roughly, Dean’s hand twisting at the head in just the right way that set Castiel’s blood aflame. It was Dean’s hand reaching behind him now, a dry finger swiping over his hole, just teasing it, pressing without intent, just to draw out another groan. This time it was no surprise when he moaned Dean’s name. He shifted his weight and bumped the remote with his knee for his trouble, the playback resumed and there was that wink, that sinful wink and in no time at all, Castiel was done. He forgot to breathe even as a strangled groan escaped him and he felt his release spurt over his fist, onto the crisp, white sheets. He twitched a little, jerking against the motions as he forced his hand to keep going, working him through the over-stimulation (Dean would not be kind) until he caught his breath again and sank down onto the bed, his knees weak and suddenly unable to support him.

Sense returned to Castiel slowly and in increments. The television had paused again, this time on the moment before Dean turned away. He truly was breathtaking. Castiel couldn’t take his eyes off him. The itch was scratched and it was positively domestic the way in which Castiel curled into the covers, plumping the pillows beside him so he could fall asleep looking at the screen. So that as he drifted he could imagine that it was Dean beside him, Dean who had wrung the last of the tension out of him. His last coherent thought before sleep took Castiel to where Dean waited was that only a crazy person would think himself in love at a distance because of a simple wink. But then, Dean had just emptied a clip into a vault of people for no other reason than to smile at the camera. So really, who was he to judge what constituted ‘crazy’?

Six hundred and eighteen miles away, across two separate state’s lines, Dean Winchester painted cheap motel linen white with his climax. His hips continued to rock into his palm, even after it was over, even when he felt himself growing soft again. But Castiel would like the contact, he reasoned. He seemed the type to stay close. He wasn’t remotely surprised to find that he’d come so hard a splatter had landed on his phone screen, paused on the breaking news story he’d managed to find on a livestream. He swiped his thumb to clean it and in doing so, restarted the video in question. Castiel Novak, standing over a man in a chair, slitting his throat for the camera and grinning up at it. A moment ago Dean had found it irresistible, the splash of blood on his cheek had been all too much but now he found it endearing, his thumb returning to the screen to touch at Castiel’s cheek lovingly. He kept the screen paused at that moment as he shuffled down under the sheets, shifting them so he wasn’t touched by the wet patch he’d created. He brought the phone close to his face, as though he were going to snuggle down into the pillows with it. He didn’t of course, but just before he turned the screen off, he ran his thumb once more over Castiel’s bloodied cheek and with a breath of a whisper murmured, “night, Cas.”


End file.
